I wonder if anyone remembers that part of the reason the US bombed Iraq was "to promote democracy." Has anyone checked out the latest results of the Kenyan presidential elections? Ask a few people who know, like my partner and his parents. Kibaki, the incumbent, who has support from Daniel arap Moi (who was notoriously corrupt and whose administration imprisoned and intimidated my partner's parents when their pro-democracy magazine challenged his practices)....anyway Kibaki has been declared the victor only after accusations of early polling-place irregularity, after his administration suspended giving results about half way through (when his opponent Odinga was leading by a large margin and Kibaki's party had been losing parliamentary seats), after they barred all EU election monitors from the tallying place. There are riots in Kenya, maybe a hundred people are dead, because people know they've been cheated.
Just thought it should be on more peoples' radar screens. Voter fraud, intimidation of the press, and corruption are not new there, but this election, with a turnout of around 70%, represented many hopes for positive change. Unfortunately, corruption has won again.
I'm not calling for the US to bomb anyone, but I think if we're going to champion democracy, there ought to be some strong pressure on Kibaki's administration.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
anti-war / ouch, vitriol
I'm reading Welcome to the Terrordome by Dave Zirin--an excellent book about sports and politics/social justice. At some point, when I'm reading about Muhammed Ali resisting the draft and Etan Thomas speaking out against war (and a host of other things), I reflect on my work with injured veterans. And most veterans are injured veterans, even if they have no physical scars.
I was reflecting on the idea of being pro-war or anti-war. It occurred to me that being pro-war means wanting, hoping for, the infliction of injuries like the ones we work with. How could anyone be pro-war? Only those far removed from the physical realities. On Tuesday I talked with a recently discharged vet at a homeless drop-in center, and he talked about how jarring it is to be back, in the civilian world, with cold, rainy weather--a world where you don't have to say "sir" and stand at attention. That's not to mention wounds of body and mind.
To be pro-war is to hope for the infliction of pain on soldiers and on those who are the victims of soldiers. To be pro-war is to never feel endangered by bullets flying at your body, to never fear that your loved ones will die too young. To be pro-war is to WANT war to happen. And let me tell you, from somone who has seen combat through the words and silent bodily witness of former soldiers, that's fucked up. We must be anti-war if we are human in our hearts.
That's what I want to hear from any leadership that requests my allegience and consent. I want to hear apologies to those soldiers, families, and loved ones who have lost somone, and to those soldiers who have lost all or part of their lives, maybe part of their souls. I want to hear how we will honor those dead and wounded--not by pulling out, but by leaving the country a better place than when we started (if that's possible). By leaving a place where we've committed to helping rebuild what we've damaged, bind up what we've wounded, and partner with those innocent people whom we have acted against. We are a nation at war, and unaccountably, most people don't even realize it. Merry Christmas.
Behind every cynicism, there is hope for a better world (thanks to my CPE supervisor-in-training for that gem).
I was reflecting on the idea of being pro-war or anti-war. It occurred to me that being pro-war means wanting, hoping for, the infliction of injuries like the ones we work with. How could anyone be pro-war? Only those far removed from the physical realities. On Tuesday I talked with a recently discharged vet at a homeless drop-in center, and he talked about how jarring it is to be back, in the civilian world, with cold, rainy weather--a world where you don't have to say "sir" and stand at attention. That's not to mention wounds of body and mind.
To be pro-war is to hope for the infliction of pain on soldiers and on those who are the victims of soldiers. To be pro-war is to never feel endangered by bullets flying at your body, to never fear that your loved ones will die too young. To be pro-war is to WANT war to happen. And let me tell you, from somone who has seen combat through the words and silent bodily witness of former soldiers, that's fucked up. We must be anti-war if we are human in our hearts.
That's what I want to hear from any leadership that requests my allegience and consent. I want to hear apologies to those soldiers, families, and loved ones who have lost somone, and to those soldiers who have lost all or part of their lives, maybe part of their souls. I want to hear how we will honor those dead and wounded--not by pulling out, but by leaving the country a better place than when we started (if that's possible). By leaving a place where we've committed to helping rebuild what we've damaged, bind up what we've wounded, and partner with those innocent people whom we have acted against. We are a nation at war, and unaccountably, most people don't even realize it. Merry Christmas.
Behind every cynicism, there is hope for a better world (thanks to my CPE supervisor-in-training for that gem).
Thursday, December 13, 2007
fingernail clippings
On the bus today, my crossword puzzle was interrupted by the recognizable snapping of fingernail clippers. The man a couple rows ahead of me was clipping his nails. I pretended to be engrossed in my puzzle, using the “I’m thinking really hard and staring into space” look to check out my neighbors’ reactions. No one seemed the slightest bit bothered. The man must have clipped each nail about three times, and he did all 10. I started to wonder if he was working on his toes. My inner dialogues were speeding along furiously. Should I say something? What would I say? Is it my business? What can I compare it to? Is it a personal affront? Is it gross? Is it cultural difference? Why do I feel sick to my stomach? Why does it sound so loud? Why isn’t anyone else noticing? I called my partner to leave a voicemail saying that I wish he could answer the phone because there was a guy cutting his fingernails and I wasn’t sure what to do—I wanted to bounce ideas off him. I decided, for a moment, I’d done my passive-aggressive duty. But it still bugged me. If I was going to do CPE with a “new wade” who says what he thinks, why not start now? But I couldn’t. I didn’t know how to formulate it. I practiced conversations with me head. I decided how to handle if he came at me with the clippers, but I couldn’t figure out how to respond if he asked me why it bothered me. Because it’s gross! Then I saw him sweep the clippings onto the bus floor. There was a time when I would tolerate nose picking as long as the contents are properly disposed of, and the hands were considered septic until otherwise washed. But no more! Still, I hunkered down into my crossword puzzle and said nothing. Until I got off the bus behind him, and I noticed there were still clippings on the seat! I puzzled some more as I followed him into the parking lot. Finally I said it: “Excuse me, maybe it’s none of my business…I was trying to decide whether or not to say anything, but I noticed you left fingernail clippings on the seat. Could you wait until you get home to clip your nails?” He looked at me and said, “Yeah, okay.” And continued to walk. I think I expected shame, guilt, shock at having been noticed, but then I remembered how loud the whole thing was. Still, I feel good that I spoke up, even if I suspect it did nothing. Now I have this undeniable urge to trim my fingernails…in the privacy of my own room!
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Here If You Need Me
Just a quick note to recommend a book that basically everyone should read. It's called Here If You Need Me by Kate Braestrup. It is her personal story of the death of her husband, her seminary education as a grieving widow with four children, and her ministry as a chaplain with the Maine Warden Service. She intertwines these themes in a way that made me laugh and cry almost at the same time. She works with those who, for the most part, are not very religiously connected to churches, but who are spiritually connected to the forest, to the Maine landscape. She touches something very deep inside me, reflecting a theology very close to my own.
About the grief she and her children experience: "We discovered that...You can cry while ordering a pizza over the telephone, although the conversation will be longer and more confused than it otherwise is...You can weep while coloring...Peter discovered that it is possible to weep while emptying rainwater from garbage cans. Zach wept while taking out the compost, while folding pillowcases."
About asking "where is God?" when a warden pulls a dead 4-year-old girl's body from where it had broken through the ice on a pond: "The death of the little girl with red mittens is not God's will or plan. It is physics and biology, the bearing capacity of frozen water, the point at which hypothermia causes a small body's systems to fail. ... Here is my answer to theodicy problem in a nutshell: Frank took the child out from under the ice with his own hands, tried to give her his breath, and his heart broke when he could not save her life. Frank IS the answer."
It's a quick read, full of weathered, grounded humor, and maybe one of the best books I've ever read.
About the grief she and her children experience: "We discovered that...You can cry while ordering a pizza over the telephone, although the conversation will be longer and more confused than it otherwise is...You can weep while coloring...Peter discovered that it is possible to weep while emptying rainwater from garbage cans. Zach wept while taking out the compost, while folding pillowcases."
About asking "where is God?" when a warden pulls a dead 4-year-old girl's body from where it had broken through the ice on a pond: "The death of the little girl with red mittens is not God's will or plan. It is physics and biology, the bearing capacity of frozen water, the point at which hypothermia causes a small body's systems to fail. ... Here is my answer to theodicy problem in a nutshell: Frank took the child out from under the ice with his own hands, tried to give her his breath, and his heart broke when he could not save her life. Frank IS the answer."
It's a quick read, full of weathered, grounded humor, and maybe one of the best books I've ever read.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Somewhere There Is War
I wrote this about a family from the Traumatic Brain Injury (TBI) aka Polytrauma unit who passed by me in the hall.
27 November 2007
Somewhere There Is War
The kids trot dutifully, dragging a teddy bear, try to look strong, behind their mother who is pushing their father in a wheelchair. He was once their father, if they remember him, touching their noses in wonder, letting them wrap their tiny hands around his thick fingers--before he went. Now, in a wheelchair, he smells funny, takes up Mommy's time, makes her cry. He was once her husband, if she remembers, touching her here and there, wrapping his thick arms around her waist--before he went over. Now he wants their attention, somewhere in his brain he knows this. He wants their love, their touch; he wants to tell them he loves them; he wants to tell them that somewhere he knows--he is her husband, their father, a man, a soldier, proud. If he makes this sound, this unearthly sound,
It curdles; in the ward, it condenses all the dread and fear into sandy precipitate that settles into the pits of stomachs. If he makes this sound, they'll pay attention to him; maybe they'll look into his eyes and maybe they'll see that--somewhere in his brain he knows, somewhere in that egg yolk rattled too much in its shell by the blast wave, somewhere in the leaking yellow fluid, he knows who he used to be, who he is, who he wants to be.
27 November 2007
Somewhere There Is War
The kids trot dutifully, dragging a teddy bear, try to look strong, behind their mother who is pushing their father in a wheelchair. He was once their father, if they remember him, touching their noses in wonder, letting them wrap their tiny hands around his thick fingers--before he went. Now, in a wheelchair, he smells funny, takes up Mommy's time, makes her cry. He was once her husband, if she remembers, touching her here and there, wrapping his thick arms around her waist--before he went over. Now he wants their attention, somewhere in his brain he knows this. He wants their love, their touch; he wants to tell them he loves them; he wants to tell them that somewhere he knows--he is her husband, their father, a man, a soldier, proud. If he makes this sound, this unearthly sound,
It curdles; in the ward, it condenses all the dread and fear into sandy precipitate that settles into the pits of stomachs. If he makes this sound, they'll pay attention to him; maybe they'll look into his eyes and maybe they'll see that--somewhere in his brain he knows, somewhere in that egg yolk rattled too much in its shell by the blast wave, somewhere in the leaking yellow fluid, he knows who he used to be, who he is, who he wants to be.
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